


The Friendly Society (Ch2)

by CarmillaCarmine



Series: The Memoirs of Dr. John H. Watson [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Canon Compliant, Deleted Scenes, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Flirting, Gay Bar, It's For a Case, M/M, Pining, Possessive Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-29 22:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16273628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine/pseuds/CarmillaCarmine
Summary: John finds out that he can truly follow Sherlock anywhere, even if it's a gay bar.





	The Friendly Society (Ch2)

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 of "deleted scenes" style fic [The Memoirs of Dr. John H. Watson](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1158497)  
> Almost all parts can be read as stand-alone stories but read better together. The Memoirs fit between or during episodes of the Sherlock TV show. At the beginning of each part, I'll be indicating when in the show the part takes place. Consequently, there are gaps between my stories where the episodes of the show fit it.
> 
> Part2 - The Friendly Society takes place after the events of The Blind Banker - S1 E2

 

 

“Mrs. Hudson? Who did you let in here today?” yelled Sherlock from the sitting room. 

“No one called in today or yesterday. Why, is something the matter?” replied Mrs. Hudson, inspecting the fridge and mumbling something about ears in a jar.

“Nothing,” he waved a hand and tightened his robe before continuing to inspect the shelves. “John? What did you do with my slipper?” Sherlock attacked John who was just climbing the stairs to the apartment with a Tesco bag in hand.

“What slipper?” John feigned confusion. 

“ _The_  slipper.”

“It’s safe.”

“It’s under your bed, isn’t it?”

John just sighed with resignation

“Never mind, I don’t need it yet,” Sherlock continued picking up various items and putting them back into place. He was checking behind and under books on the shelves, under the letter pinned with a knife to the mantlepiece, under the clock...

“Would you like a cuppa?” Mrs. Hudson addressed John who started unpacking groceries into the fridge, “Sherlock is in one of his moods.”

“And biscuits.” Mrs. Hudson gave John a narrow-eyed look before he continued, “Please.”

“Be right back,” she patted his arm and left with a spring in her step; must be the new herbal soothers.

-

“Lestrade, stop loitering!” John almost dropped the milk bottle that was in his hand when Sherlock yelled so suddenly. Greg entered with a thick manila envelope in hand, his hair slightly dishevelled, his posture signalling that he had a difficult morning. Sherlock took one look at him and turned his gaze to the ceiling in exasperation. “I don’t have time for this.”

“But there's been a -“

“I know. It’s her neighbour, the one with a green bike.”

“Are you making this up?” Greg looked at John, but John just shrugged. No one knew  _how_  he did it, but he did and that was enough for the police. Apparently.

“The ballistics should confirm it,” Sherlock waved D.I. Lestrade out just before he could manage to ask another question, judging by the way he opened his mouth. “The gun is under his mother’s mattress. You can say she’s an accomplice. Good afternoon.” Sherlock slammed the door and went back to inspecting the sitting room. It was time for the cupboard next to the window. He pulled the drawer out and shook the contents out on the desk. Initially John had argued that it was supposed to be a table but he had given up that battle months ago. To John’s utter amazement, it was even messier now than it usually was.

“What exactly are you looking for?”

“Haven’t the faintest,” Sherlock responded without pausing his rummaging.

“Right. Can I help?” 

“Hmmm yes. Shut up.” Sherlock said bluntly.

“Yoo hoo, here’s your tea,” said Mrs. Hudson entering the room without knocking. John took the tray but went downstairs with the landlady to let the grumpy-robe be alone.

Not even half an hour had passed when Sherlock came storming downstairs, his head comically popping from behind the door to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen.

“Are you coming, John?” 

John shoved one last biscuit into his mouth, already standing, and sprinted towards the door following the swishy coat.

-

Sherlock sat quietly in the taxi and John knew asking questions was pointless. If Sherlock wanted him to know something, he would say so. Usually John found out about the destination once they arrived and most times, he was fine with that. He looked through the window at the neighbourhood they entered.

“Are we going to Soho?”

“We need to mingle.” Sherlock responded matter-of-factly.

“Right. What for?” John asked but Sherlock was already out of the cab, leaving John to pay for it.

John passed the money to the cabbie, thanked him and was out the door, following his flatmate.

They went into an alley and towards a door John would never have thought had anything interesting behind it. The club had a blue sign that said ‘Friendly SOCIETY’ and the society indeed seemed to be very friendly. 

“Sherlock? Are you sure this is the right place?” Again, his question fell on deaf ears as Sherlock was already paying the bouncer and John followed like the gullible idiot he felt he was right now. 

The place was rammed. The inside of the club was unique to say the least; with wallpaper that was threatening to give him nausea with all its mismatched patterns, and gnomes for stools. The Barbie dolls hanging from the ceiling were distracting, but they added to the unique atmosphere of the place. 

“Can I buy you a drink?” John felt a slight touch on his right arse cheek. Startled, he swivelled toward the deep voice. A large man smiled at him. He wore leather boxer briefs and nothing else besides black military boots, similar to the ones John had worn in the army. 

“Sorry, I’m not actually...” John glanced around and decided it wasn’t worth it this time. “Listen, you seem nice but,-”

“I get it,” the man lifted his palms up, “I saw the guy you walked in with and I don’t blame you. Shame though, I haven’t seen any other military guys here lately,” he turned off the charm and John didn't even mind the bloke’s state of undress anymore. 

“Military?” John perked up with interest. “Where were you stationed?” 

“Afghanistan.”

John laughed, “No way. What was your-”

“John?” Sherlock materialized next to John and handed him a glass of... mojito?

“It was a pleasure...  _John_ ,” the man smiled and extended his hand for John to shake all the while glancing at Sherlock as the detective loomed right behind John. John had an impulse to explain himself but Mr. Leather Briefs was gone; off to chat up someone else.

John caught Sherlock’s narrowed-eyed stare before it disappeared without a trace behind a mask of composure. Right, they were on a case and for whatever reason they had to be in this bar. The jealous boyfriend act worked before so John prepared himself to play the part again. He took a sip of the mojito. It was quite refreshing, and damn strong too. 

This time it was him who slid his arm around Sherlock’s waist. The latter didn’t react, just kept searching the crowd with slightly furrowed brow. John tried to remember what had Sherlock done last time and tried to look around at others without staring too much. He slid his hand into Sherlock’s back pocket as this was what several pairs in the place were doing.

Sherlock was wearing jeans for a change, very tight jeans. John tried to remember if he’d ever seen Sherlock wearing anything other than the whole suit ensemble he usually wore when they went out. Yes, he had and John could recall it quite clearly. He had never considered Sherlock's clothing choices before but he realised he must have been noticing them involuntarily.

His heart started to beat faster, he could feel it. The drink must be stronger than he had realized and the excitement of the case upped the adrenaline in his system.  _Yes, that was_ _it_ , John thought. 

Once again, he looked at people around them. They were smiling, chatting, and dancing but one couple in particular drew his attention. A man of about twenty-five with purple hair was gazing at another man about the same age who was gesticulating so energetically that it was safe to assume he was telling a story. The way Purple-hair looked at his friend made it clear that he saw something in the friend he didn’t see in anyone else; as if he was the most fascinating person in the universe.  

A warm feeling came over John. He looked at Sherlock’s profile, the face he saw every day, a face with perfect skin and high cheekbones. John’s hand was still in his friend’s back pocket and he became painfully aware that he was practically touching Sherlock's arse. Apparently, Sherlock didn’t mind, for the sake of the case of course. John was not bothered by the sensation of the warmth of Sherlock’s buttock in his palm either. He could be as professional about it as Sherlock himself. 

Sherlock's expression was focused, his chiselled jaw clenched to the point of grinding molars. What John was looking at was like a picture, no, a painting belonging in a museum. Better yet, a sculpture that should be admired by millions of people over the centuries. And that was just the surface. The part Sherlock didn’t even care for. He only cared for his mind.

John craned his neck and leaned over to Sherlock's ear. His mouth was so close to his friend’s cheek, he could almost taste Sherlock’s cologne. And yet, he still had to raise his voice over the loud music to ask,

“What are we looking for?”

“Who. It’s who,” abruptly, Sherlock removed John’s hand from his pocket and stormed towards the crowd. 

John felt lost for a moment; standing in a crowded bar but suddenly very alone. A feeling he couldn't identify came over him, like he was going to be sick, like he had eaten something bad. He swallowed but he was sure the feeling was not caused by the Chinese leftovers they had eaten a few hours before. John straightened his back and put the abandoned hand in his own trouser pocket. Sherlock cared for his mind, not much else indeed.

A movie was playing in the background, a musical of some sort, but John tried to spot Sherlock who was now lost somewhere in the crowd. Finally, he spotted a black mane of curls bouncing followed by a tall figure manoeuvring through the sea of people. All of a sudden, Sherlock grabbed a thirty-something scrawny chap by his arms. John jumped into action before Sherlock could do something stupid.

“Did you break into my rooms?” Sherlock fired at the man, yelling over the loud music. He focused his stare on the face of the assaulted man as he awaited a response.

“Sod off mate, I didn’t...” the man started but then recognition took over his expression, “Sherlock?”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “you didn’t,” he let the man go and started towards the door.

“I’m sorry for that,” John said taking a quick sip of his mojito and throwing a tenner on the bar next to the unfinished drink.

_ _ _

A similar event happened several more times until one afternoon John found Sherlock in the sitting room concentrated over something on the computer.

“Is that my laptop?” he asked giving Sherlock an incredulous stare.

“Mhmm”

“Are you looking at police records from my laptop? How did you get access... “ his words trailed off as he saw ‘D.I. Lestrade’ in the corner of the page. “You hacked Greg's police account?” 

“Please,” Sherlock smirked at the very mention of password hacking. Then furrowed his brow. “Who is Greg?” he asked as he snapped the laptop shut. 

“Did you find anything? Whatever it is you were looking for...”

“A fingerprint,” Sherlock responded, waving the said print that he had extracted and secured on a piece of tape. “Open that box.”

There was a carved box about three by five inches in size lying on the table. John inspected it closely as he picked it up. “It’s empty.”

“Is it really?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it is, Sherlock,” sassed John turning the box upside down for demonstration. 

“Tell me what you see. Go on, you know how it works.”

“Yeah so you can point out how wrong I am? No thanks.”

Sherlock moved up to sit on the backrest of his chair, his feet on the cushion and looked expectedly at John. The latter let out a breath of resignation.

“It’s a wooden box with nothing on it.”

“Excellent observation but I hoped you’ll go a bit deeper.”

“Umm it looks old, has metal hinges and … I don’t know, it’s just a box. For jewellery maybe?”

“Great!” Sherlock jumped off the chair and took the box from John.

“Was I right?”

“No.” Sherlock deadpanned as he paced the sitting room. “The box was made to look old. It’s too rough looking for jewellery and too small for letters. It was made especially for us. How deliciously fascinating. It was handmade. Initially, the person made sure not to leave fingerprints by wearing rubber gloves. Careful. Working on the hinges in gloves was tricky and one broke, leaving traces of talc powder and resulting in a partial fingerprint. Not so careful. I confirmed that it is not anyone who’s on the police database. That’s what I was checking.”

“Do you suspect someone?”

“I thought it must be a person who knew me personally. University would be the best bet. Apparently, I stepped on many toes back in the day.”

“I never would have guessed,” John’s mumbled words went completely ignored.

“We already interviewed most of the people who were the most probable suspects of the break ins...,”

“Break ins?!”

“...but none of them appeared to have done it. But now, now John, we have a mistake,” Sherlock locked his hands together with an audible clap. Just a manic laugh was missing to complete the full picture of a raging lunatic.     

“I need coffee for this,” John opened the new jar of coffee he just purchased and put the kettle on to boil. Four minutes later, he was back in the living room with a mug in hand and semi-ready for further Sherlock-isms. In a flash, his mug was gone from his hand and then back in it just as quickly.

“Ugh, it has no sugar in it,” was Sherlock’s brilliant deduction.

“That’s because it’s  _my_  coffee,” John had another look at the box, the nectar of the gods doing its job. “Where’s this key from?” John pointed at a brass key with a shoestring attached to it lying next to the box in question.

“It was in the box, but I can’t think of the significance. Not yet.” Sherlock handed John the key, “You can hold it, there are no fingerprints on it anyway.”

 “237, like in the movie,”

“What did you say?” Sherlock's attention was now fully on John.

“You know, The Shining. I saw it with Harry when I was about ten on VHS. I’ve never been so scared before. That’s probably why I remember it. Later, I read the book too.” Courtesy of boredom in a tent while wrapped in a woobie in the middle of the desert. At that moment he would have read anything to ease his mind before the next day. “You must have at least heard about the movie.”

Sherlock was speechless for a moment and John felt a smirk forming on his lips. The great Sherlock Holmes was impressed. John tried to take a mental picture of Sherlock’s face, enjoy the rare moment. He felt like laughing with joy. Silly.

“I must have. Useless information, that,” Sherlock made a sweeping hand motion indicating that such trivia were beyond his interest. “Where’s my coffee?” That was cue for John to leave. Let Sherlock make his own damn coffee.

_ _ _

By the end of the day, Sherlock was almost done with reading The Shining. “It’s rather good.” He admitted with a surprise clear in his voice as he sat curled on his chair.

“I thought you didn’t read fiction.”

“I read your blog.”

“My blog is not fiction,” John protested but Sherlock just lifted his gaze to meet his, one eyebrow slightly lifted. “Ok most of it isn’t.”

“It’s because  _for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination,”_ _s_ aid Sherlock in one intake of breath. “We’re leaving tomorrow at four if you care to join me.”

And just like that Sherlock was back to reading the book, oblivious to the world around him.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Quote taken directly from A.C. Doyle’s “The Red-Headed League”


End file.
